When I had decided that my chance for securing the little stiletto spike
was very uncertain, I at once busied myself with plans which were designed
to bring about my death by drowning. There was in the ward a large bath
tub. Access to it could be had at any time, except from the hour of
nine (when the patients were locked in their rooms for the night) until
the following morning. How to reach it during the night was the problem
which confronted me. The attendant in charge was supposed to see that
each patient was in his room before his door was locked. As it rarely
happened that the patients were not in their rooms at the appointed
time, the attendants naturally grew careless, and often locked a door
without looking in. "Good night"--a salutation usually devoid of
sentiment--might, or might not, elicit a response, and the absence of a
response would not tend to arouse suspicion--especially in a case like
mine, for I would sometimes say "good night," but more often not.
My simple and easy plan was to hide behind a piece of furniture in the
corridor and there remain until the attendant had locked the doors of
the rooms and gone to bed. I had even advanced so far in my plan as to
select a convenient nook within twenty feet of my own room. Should the
attendant, when about to lock the door, discover my absence, I should,
of course, immediately reveal my hiding-place by leaving it; and it
would have been an easy matter to convince him that I had done the
thing as a test of his own vigilance. On the other hand, if I escaped
discovery, I should then have nine hours at my disposal with little
fear of interruption. True, the night watch passed through the ward
once every hour. But death by drowning requires a time no longer than
that necessary to boil an egg. I had even calculated how long it would
take to fill the tub with water. To make sure of a fatal result, I had
secreted a piece of wire which I intended so to use that my head, once
under water, could by no possibility be raised above the surface in the
inevitable death struggle.
I have said that I did not desire death; nor did I. Had the supposed
detectives been able to convince me that they would keep their word, I
would willingly have signed an agreement stipulating on my side that I
must live the rest of my life in confinement, and on theirs that I
should never undergo a trial for crime.
Fortunately, during these dismal preparations, I had not lost interest
in other schemes which probably saved my life. In these the
fellow-patient who had won my confidence played the role of my own
private detective. That he and I could defeat the combined forces
arrayed against me hardly seemed probable, but the seeming
impossibility of so doing only lent zest to the undertaking. My friend,
who, of course, did not realize that he was engaged in combat with the
Secret Service, was allowed to go where he pleased within the limits of
the city where the hospital was situated. Accordingly I determined to
enlist his services. It was during July that, at my suggestion, he
tried to procure copies of certain New Haven newspapers, of the date of
my attempted suicide and the several dates immediately following. My
purpose was to learn what motive had been ascribed to my suicidal act.
I felt sure that the papers would contain at least hints as to the
nature of the criminal charges against me. But my purpose I did not
disclose to my friend. In due time he reported that no copies for the
given dates were to be had. So _that_ quest proved fruitless, and I
attributed the failure to the superior strategy of the enemy.
Meanwhile, my friend had not stopped trying to convince me that my
apparent relatives were not spurious; so one day I said to him: "If my
relatives still live in New Haven, their addresses must be in the
latest New Haven Directory. Here is a list containing the names and
former addresses of my father, brother, and uncle. These were their
addresses in 1900. To-morrow, when you go out, please see whether they
appear in the New Haven Directory for 1902. These persons who present
themselves to me as relatives pretend to live at these addresses. If
they speak the truth, the 1902 Directory will corroborate them. I shall
then have hope that a letter sent to any one of these addresses will
reach relatives--and surely some attention will be paid to it."
The next day, my own good detective went to a local publishing house
where directories of important cities throughout the country could be
consulted. Shortly after he went upon this errand, my conservator
appeared. He found me walking about the lawn. At his suggestion we sat
down. Bold in the assurance that I could kill myself before the crisis
came, I talked with him freely, replying to many of his questions and
asking several. My conservator, who did not know that I doubted his
identity, commented with manifest pleasure on my new-found readiness to
talk. He would have been less pleased, however, had he been able to
read my mind.
Shortly after my conservator's departure, my fellow-patient returned
and informed me that the latest New Haven Directory contained the names
and addresses I had given him. This information, though it did not
prove that my morning caller was no detective, did convince me that my
real brother still lived where he did when I left New Haven, two years
earlier. Now that my delusions were growing weaker, my returning reason
enabled me to construct the ingenious scheme which, I believe, saved my
life; for, had I not largely regained my reason _when I did_, I am
inclined to believe that my distraught mind would have destroyed itself
and me, before it could have been restored by the slow process of
returning health.
A few hours after my own private detective had given me the information
I so much desired, I wrote the first letter I had written in twenty-six
months. As letters go, it is in a class by itself. I dared not ask for
ink, so I wrote with a lead pencil. Another fellow-patient in whom I
had confidence, at my request, addressed the envelope; but he was not
in the secret of its contents. This was an added precaution, for I
thought the Secret Service men might have found out that I had a
detective of my own and would confiscate any letters addressed by him
or me. The next morning, _my_ "detective" mailed the letter. That
letter I still have, and I treasure it as any innocent man condemned to
death would treasure a pardon. It should convince the reader that
sometimes a mentally disordered person, even one suffering from many
delusions, can think and write clearly. An exact copy of this--the most
important letter I ever expect to be called upon to write--is here
presented: